


Rivers and Roads

by ticticinstance



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-19 06:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15504006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticticinstance/pseuds/ticticinstance
Summary: When the Warden allows Anora to sentence Alistair to execution, it’s up to Zevran to help him break free.  Together the two men race across Ferelden, determined to outwit and outrun the soldiers chasing them and escape across the sea.  But as growing feelings and past traumas slow them down, their escape may have been doomed from the start.





	1. Chapter 1

“I must call for your execution.”  Hushed whispers filled the air as Anora’s words rang out, but the silence among the party in the center of the room was absolute. 

“I… surely that isn’t necessary.  He is a Warden, and,” the Warden said weakly.  Anora held up a hand.

“He is not simply a Warden.  He is Maric’s son and is a potential threat to the peace of Ferelden.  I will not allow us to return to war.  You are an intelligent woman, Warden.  Surely you understand that this is necessary.”  Anora looked at her sharply.  The Warden looked to the floor, shoulders sagging as the weight of the past year collapsed onto her.  The peace she’d sought was so close, and yet. 

_In death, sacrifice._

“Yes, your majesty.  I understand.” 

Anora nodded and gestured for the guards.  Alistair looked to the Warden, gaping. 

“Tell me you aren’t doing this,” he said.  She said nothing.  Behind her, Leliana and Wynne exchanged shocked glances, while Zevran watched the Warden with a dark look.  The Warden’s eyes darted from Anora to Alistair.  She began to speak, but Alistair couldn’t hear anymore.  He simply stood there and stared at the woman he loved as she betrayed him.

 

As the guards led him away, he numbly fell in beside them.  They dragged him through dark hallways and down narrow stairs to the dungeon, their grip tight on his arms and shoulders.  When they finally arrived, the room was full of sneering men, standing at the ready.

“So, this is the traitor,” said a large man in the center of the room, leering at Alistair.  Alistair grimaced but said nothing as his weapons and armor were stripped from him.  The man came closer, his foul breath punctuating the air.

“Ah, this must be where Anora keeps her pet trolls.  Could have cleaned up a bit before showing me down here,” Alistair said, wrinkling his nose dramatically.

“You’re lucky the Queen wants to kill you herself,” he growled.  “But don’t worry, you’ll see those other freak Wardens soon enough.”  The man smiled viciously and spat into Alistair’s face.  Alistair’s eyes narrowed as he felt the spit and mucus drip down his cheek.  The man’s smile widened, and he opened his mouth to continue when Alistair’s head collided with his nose with a sickening crunch.  The guard cursed and blood ran down his face as he backed away.  The others all started yelling and coming towards them, some already drawing their weapons.  Alistair spit at them and readied to fight, when he felt a thud on the side of his head and everything went dark.

 

After so long with the Warden and their friends, Alistair had almost forgotten the torture of silence.  Memories haunted him, reminding of the endless nights in the Chantry halls or afternoons spent hiding from Isolde.  In the dark quiet of the dungeon, Alistair felt himself shrink.  Desperate for any kind of distraction, he tried to remember everything he could about their well-used campsite.  The threadbare tents and warm campfire settling into whatever clearing they could find.  Leliana singing, her melodic voice echoing against the forest.  Sten with crumbs stuck to his lips, sneaking cookies to the dog.  Even Morrigan joining them on rare evenings, pretending not to enjoy herself and sharing wine with Wynne. 

Alistair smiled and let himself sink deeper into the scene.  Zevran’s quick wit and easy smile, joking at him next to the fire.  Them laughing together, and Alistair turning to share the joke with the Warden.  The Warden’s loose hair framing her soft face while she grinned at him.  Cupping her cheek and smiling back before he leaned in to kiss her.

The pain in Alistair’s heart abruptly reminded him where he is, and why.  Squeezing his eyes shut, he changed tactics and forced himself to remember every obnoxious tavern song Oghren had ever sang.  When remembering did nothing to help, he sang them himself.  Louder and louder he sang, ignoring the guards as they harshly called for him to stop.  Finally, one guard stormed to his cell, banging on the bars to get Alistair’s attention. 

Alistair didn’t stop.  The guard opened the door, fist clenched.

 

_The darkspawn raged across the field, frantically lumbering towards Alistair.  All around him, they screeched, rusted swords held high.  Alistair’s own sword felt heavy in his hand as the blade dropped down and rooted itself to the ground.  Desperately, he yanked at the pommel, then scratched at the dirt when the sword refused to loosen.  The darkspawn came closer, surrounding Alistair as he pulled and clawed at the earth.  From somewhere within, he could hear their calls.  The sickening, bitter song filled his blood and urged him to let go, to forget his weapon and join them.  With a hoarse cry, he slammed his fists on the ground and got to his feet.  He turned to face the horde as they fell upon him._

A heavy thud jolted Alistair awake, followed by a short and strangled cry.  Rubbing at his temple, he fought to stand and face whatever was approaching.  He shook his head and tried to clear the sparks in his eyes, but the sudden wooziness forced him to lean against the cell walls for support.  Still, he held his head high and forced his eyes open, watching the door with blurred vision.  A shape appeared in front of the cell door and froze.  Alistair tried to force clarity past the sparks and smudges.

“You look terrible,” an Antivan accent said flatly before the figure kneeled in front of the lock.  _Zevran_.  Alistair sagged against the wall, his eyes falling closed while Zevran worked to open the cell door.  In a few short moments, the door loosed and let out a sharp creak.  Alistair flinched.  Suddenly Zevran was right in front of him, his dark eyes sharp and searching.

“We must hurry.  Are you able to walk?” Zevran asked, glancing behind him as he spoke.  Alistair attempted a nod, then groaned.  His vision began to blacken and tilt before a firm hand grasped his arm and forced him upright.  Zevran tutted softly as his strong fingers pried open Alistair’s mouth and poured liquid inside.  Alistair gagged as the bitter taste of elfroot filled his senses.  The bruises on his skull began to tingle and burn slightly as the potion took effect. Vision finally clearing, he looked up at Zevran.

“Thank you.”  His voice was raspy and cracked, and Alistair grimaced to hear it.

“You may thank me thoroughly once we are out of this dungeon,” Zevran responded.  Without the usual levity in his voice, the joke fell flat.  Alistair saw his face tighten before he briskly turned away and left the cell.  Alistair didn’t hesitate before following.  In the dim light, he could just see Zevran’s shadow disappear around the end of the hallway and into what Alistair knew to be the guards’ room.  Alistair rushed after him, longing for a sword as he clenched his hands and charged down the hall.  Once inside, he froze and took in the scene around him.  Two guards laid dead, with seemingly no sign of a fight.  Zevran glanced up at him before continuing to strip the armor off the larger guard in the center of the room.  Alistair watched him blankly.

“Put this on, quickly.  These two will be missed before long,” Zevran said, pushing pieces of armor into Alistair’s hands and turning back to the body.  Alistair shook his head briefly and focused on the task at hand.  After a few moments of dressing in silence, Zevran returned and handed him a sword and wooden shield. 

“These will have to do,” he said, nodding.  Alistair nodded as well, fixing the sword belt around his waist. 

“No chance of stopping by the smiths for a quick stretch, then?” Alistair said, forcing some lightness into his voice and yanking at his breastplate.  Zevran caught his eye and smirked slightly.

“I’m afraid not,” he said.  He reached a hand out and tugged at one of the straps.  “Such a shame, too.  You look so handsome in proper armor,” Zevran continued, looking up at Alistair.  Alistair flushed and looked away.  Zevran chuckled and walked towards the door, gesturing for Alistair to wait.  Alistair shuffled from foot to foot as Zevran pressed his ear to the door.  After a few moments, he gently pushed the door open and stepped through.  Alistair’s fingers twitched as he fought the urge to chase after Zevran and away from the dank and oppressive dungeon. 

Zevran looked back to Alistair and put a finger to his lips, waving a hand.  Alistair nodded and forced himself to relax.  Taking a deep breath, he followed Zevran into the dark corridor.

The trek upwards was endless.  The tight and ill-fitting armor made sneaking almost impossible, and the journey through the dark hallways of the keep was filled with stumbles and scrapes.  Alistair could feel Zevran’s pointed displeasure and tried to calm his breathing.  The halls were blessedly deserted—whoever remained in the palace locked safely behind their doors.  The silent rooms made the fighting outside all the more intense as battle cries and clashing swords crept through windows and door frames.  As they came closer to escape, the darkspawn’s song echoing through Alistair’s mind grew louder.  His fingers itched to draw his sword, and he clenched his hands to quiet the urge.  Zevran turned back at the sound of Alistair’s sigh, a questioning look crossing his face.  Alistair shook his head.

“There’s a lot of them out there,” he whispered.

“Nothing we have not faced before, and survived,” Zevran said gently.  Alistair nodded, but couldn’t help thinking of their allies out among the sea of darkspawn.

“I know, it’s just--”

“I know, Alistair,” Zevran said, cutting him off.  He sighed softly.  “They are fine, I am sure.  We must worry about ourselves right now.”  Zevran turned back, leading them to the courtyard door.  Alistair strained his ears, but the sounds of fighting seemed quieter here as Zevran leaned against the door with his ear.

“No fighting here,” Zevran said, confirming Alistair’s suspicions.  “But there are darkspawn.  Quite a few, but they should be no problem for ones such as us,” he concluded with a wink. 

“Ready when you are,” Alistair said, eager to do something, anything, to quiet the tainted song in his head.  Zevran nodded and readied his daggers.  He quickly pushed the door open and Alistair raised his secondhand shield.

The stench of death and refuse hit them like a wave.  The countless corpses, Ferelden and darkspawn alike, coated the city’s streets and fermented in the midday heat.  Fires forged their way across the city, blotting the sun and casting ash over everything.  They were left reeling in the doorway, gagging as the rot screamed through their senses.  Through watering eyes, Alistair looked out to the courtyard and met the gaze of a towering Hurlock alpha.  Genlock archers flanked him, and when they raised their bows, Zevran cursed and leapt through the door and towards them.  Alistair followed just behind, charging towards the Hurlock. 

The beast let out a terrible battle cry when Alistair’s sword made contact, but Alistair could not hear it.  The song in his mind and the blood rushing through his body left him deaf to his opponent.  He moved across the battlefield on pure instinct, keeping the huge Hurlock focused on him and baiting him away from Zevran and the Genlocks.   Zevran quickly disposed of the archers, then hurled a dagger into the Hurlock’s thigh.  The creature roared and fell to its knee, allowing Alistair to bring his sword across its neck in a fierce slash.  It collapsed, and Alistair stepped back and sucked in a deep breath.  Zevran bent and retrieved his dagger, giving it a cursory wipe before sliding it into his belt.

“There are more coming.  Not sure if they’re coming to us, but they’re definitely close.  That way,” Alistair said, focusing on the corruption calling him and gesturing towards the north.  Zevran nodded.

“Well, let’s not keep them waiting, yes?”

They fought side by side, forcing their way through the Palace district.  Darkspawn waited for them beyond every corner, behind every manor and walled courtyard.  Alistair could feel himself starting to fatigue, his ill-fitting armor and the smoke challenging him as much as the fight did.  Even Zevran seemed affected, his graceful attacks becoming sloppier as he brutally stabbed the last remaining Genlock in their vicinity.  Alistair crouched down and wiped at the sweat dripping down his face.  Zevran mirrored him, taking the moment to retie his hair and adjust his bracers.  Alistair tugged uselessly at his breastplate, then closed his eyes and sighed.

“Is it so bad?” Zevran asked, brow raised.

“No, it’s not that.  I mean it is uncomfortable, but that’s not…”  

Alistair sighed.  “Do you think they’re okay?  The Warden, I mean.  And the others, of course,” he said, weakly.  Zevran looked thoughtful for a moment.

“The Warden is very skilled.  I am certain they have not yet finished terrorizing the local darkspawn,” Alistair huffed a laugh.  Zevran smiled tightly before continuing.  “As for the others… I believe Leliana, Wynne, and Shale are with the Warden.”

“It’s a miracle we haven’t heard the screams yet,” Alistair said, thinking back to the last time he and Shale had fought together.  The golem was very fond of crushing things, and not very shy about it.

“Silenced by their fear, no doubt,” Zevran said, smirking.  “As for the rest of our esteemed party, I do not know.  Morrigan disappeared sometime in the night, but the others are somewhere in the city, I would say.  I confess I did not have much of an opportunity to speak with them.” 

“Why didn’t you—” Alistair started to say when a terrible shriek rang out.  Overhead, the dark, winged silhouette of the Archdemon streaked past them.  Alistair raced to his feet.  He could feel it—the beast was injured.  If he could just reach it, he could end the Blight once and for all.  Avenge Duncan and the others.  The pull of the taint tugged at his mind and further, beyond him and out into the city.  Alistair gripped his sword and turned towards the dragon.

“Alistair, stop,” Zevran said, his hand gripping onto Alistair’s shoulder and pulling him around.  “We must leave.  The gates are to the north.”

Alistair stared at him in disbelief.  “What are you talking about?” he said, voice strained.  “I have to do this.  I’m a Warden.”

“If you go that way you will be a dead Warden, and I will have abandoned our friends for nothing,” Zevran said harshly.  The two stared at each other, Zevran’s eyes unflinching against Alistair’s glare.  After a moment of tense silence, Zevran sighed.

“If you wish to go, fine.  But there is nothing there for you.  Not anymore.”  Zevran dropped his hands and stepped back.  A howl split the air.  Alistair whipped his head towards the sound, feeling more than seeing the Archdemon as it crashed onto Fort Drakon’s tower.  His chest burned with the creature’s rage, and he smiled viciously as he realized the extent of its injuries.  The creature called out again, its anger knocking into him.  _Calling in the troops,_ Alistair thought, smile fading.  He turned back to Zevran.  He tried to picture the two of them against a horde, or one of the darkspawn generals.  Could they handle that kind of battle?  Maybe, if they got lucky.   But would Zevran still want to fight with him?  In the back of his mind, urgency flooded through him as the darkspawn answered the Archdemon’s call.

“Right,” Alistair decided.  “We need to leave.  And off the main street.  There’ll be a whole horde of them coming now.”  Zevran’s lips quirked, relief clear in his eyes when Alistair’s gaze met his.

“Let us go then, my friend.  Lead the way.”

 

Together they crept through alleyways and courtyards, ducking behind rubble to avoid approaching darkspawn and falling timber.  The city was collapsing around them as the fires took hold.  By the time they crossed the Drakon River and approached the City Gates, both men were covered in ash and muck.  They picked their way towards the exit, stepping around the corpses littering the wide road.  So far from the battle, the area was eerily quiet as they finally exited the city.

With wordless agreement they turned northwards, towards the coastal towns and away from the death creeping up from the Wilds.  They’d barely set out when a roar and boom cracked across the sky.  Startled, Zevran and Alistair turned back and looked to the city and Fort Drakon.  Brilliant white light split the sky in two, a blue halo radiating out and towards the horizon.  They stared at the scene in silence.  After a time, the lights faded away.  Alistair closed his eyes and sighed shakily, the weight of the Archdemon’s presence disappearing from his mind. 

It was over.  Zevran patted his shoulder, and together they turned away from Denerim for good.


	2. Chapter 2

They were miles from any town or village when night began to fall. 

“Should probably stop here for the night,” Alistair said, his voice raspy.  Zevran simply nodded and lead the way off the main road and towards the sound of a nearby stream.  They trudged through the undergrowth, the excitement from earlier that day taking its toll.  The trees opened into a small clearing, the stream just visible through overgrown bushes.  Alistair gratefully tugged off his borrowed armor, then followed Zevran towards the water.

They washed quickly and efficiently in the cool water, scrubbing off the sweat, muck, and dust that covered them from the earlier fights and long day on the road.  Alistair sighed in relief as the dirt washed away.  Zevran huffed a laugh at the sound and knelt by the shore to wash his face.  Pulling off his top and breeches, Alistair waded into the deeper water and ducked under the surface, removing all traces of Denerim’s dungeons from his skin.  He groaned as the cold eased the soreness that had built deep in his muscles.

Distantly, Alistair felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle up.  He glanced back towards Zevran.  The other man was still there, cleaning his daggers along the bank.  His hair was loose, falling into his face and obscuring his eyes.  Alistair turned towards him and watched as the wind gently teased the strands. 

“Are you enjoying the view, Alistair?” Zevran said, smirking.  He glanced up at met Alistair’s eyes, eyebrow raised.  Alistair flushed and looked away.

“I… I was just,” Alistair stammered.  Zevran laughed behind him.  At the sound of splashing water, Alistair turned back.  Zevran had removed his bracers and was running water over his arms, massaging them clean.  Alistair felt goosepimples raise on his own arms at the sight and absently rubbed at them.

“There is no shame in looking, my friend.  I know it can be a lot to take in,” Zevran said, looking Alistair up and down.

“Right, I’m just gonna look over here now.”  Alistair quickly turned and sank into the water, hiding his chest and shoulders.  Zevran’s laugh rang out across the water.

“Perhaps you need more time to… recover?  I will go and prepare our dinner while you do so.  Try not to take too long,” Zevran said.  Alistair could hear the wink even without seeing it.  He shook his head and waited until he heard Zevran walk away.  Sticking his head under the cool water, Alistair willed the red to fade from his ears and cheeks. 

 

When Alistair returned from the stream, Zevran had mercifully lit a fire.  Alistair sank down next to it, grateful for the warmth.  The wind cut through his threadbare clothes easily, and droplets of river water still crept down his back.  A shiver wracked through his body as a sudden breeze ran across his neck and back.  He scooted closer to the fire and sighed. 

Zevran stood from his place across the fire and moved to sit by Alistair.  Wordlessly, he handed the other man a hunk of stale bread and dried meat.  He could feel Zevran’s eyes on him, appraising, and his warmth against along his side.  Alistair’s mouth watered as he took the food.  It felt like it had been ages since he’d eaten last.  Determined not to make even more of a fool of himself, he forced himself to eat slowly and fixed his eyes on the flames.

The food was gone too soon.   Alistair sighed, his stomach quietly grumbling.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zevran purse his lips at the sound.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any more of this hidden away, do you?” he said, finally looking over to the other man.  Zevran chewed the last of his food and swallowed thickly.

“Apologies, no.  Next time I will make it a point to rescue the larder as well.”  Zevran scowled and pulled up his knees, resting his arms on them and looking pointedly ahead.

“Right, sorry,” Alistair said, rubbing his neck.  “Thanks for that, by the way.” 

Zevran closed his eyes and bowed his head, letting out a sigh. 

“You are welcome, Alistair.”

“I just,” Alistair started.  “Uhm, can I ask, you know, why you did?  I mean I know we were sort of friends, but I didn’t think we were committing treason and running away together kind of friends?”

Zevran turned his head towards Alistair.  He looked up at him slyly, and said, “Well when you put it that way, friends may not be the right word.”  The smirk was clear in his voice, and Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“It reminds me of an old Antivan story,” Zevran continued, “about a beautiful and desirable princess, and the dashing, clever Crow who stole her away.  Shall I tell it to you?” 

Alistair snorted.  “Maybe another time.”

“You’re right,” Zevran said, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back.  “Such a story must be told at a proper time.  Ideally, with good drinks and attractive company.  We will have to wait for the drinks,” he finished with an exaggerated smile, the awkwardness of earlier forgotten.  Alistair shook his head, his reply cut off by a deep yawn.

“And for sleep,” he said.  “I don’t guess you managed to, er, rescue any of the palace’s soft beds?”

“Alas, no,” Zevran said, smiling.  “I have just the one bedroll.”  He stood gracefully and retrieved the bed from his pack, shaking it out and lying it near the fire.

“Get some rest.  I will alert you if we are murdered in the night.” 

Alistair nodded, too exhausted to argue.  “How kind of you,” he said sarcastically, crawling into the bedroll.  It was lumpy in places, and musty from being stored too long, but Alistair immediately sank into it.

Zevran chuckled.  “I am the height of chivalry, it is true,” he said.  He settled on the ground next to Alistair, his back to the fire as he looked out into the night.  Alistair fell asleep to the crackling and woodsmoke of the fire, and Zevran’s warm presence and soft breathing.  It was the easiest he’d slept in weeks.

 

Alistair woke up alone. 

In the shadowed, cool morning, his mind immediately returned him to the dungeons in Denerim.  He tried to shake his head clear, to remember he was free now, but the memories wouldn’t leave him.  The pain, the grief, the loneliness—it was suddenly very real.  His pulse quickened as he looked around the clearing, but he saw no one.

“Zevran?” he called hoarsely, rising to his feet.  Alistair stumbled towards the stream, feeling more panicked as the isolation closed in around him.  He tried to force himself to stay calm but couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.  His mind ran in frantic circles, unable to settle as it went from one bad scenario to another.  He needed to find Zevran. 

When he reached the stream, it was deserted.  Alistair buried his face in his hands.  The stream bubbled loudly, crashing against the rocks and setting his teeth on edge.  He tried to hear past it, forcing his senses to reach out into the forest.  He heard birds first, a sharp screech of an eagle piercing through the birdsong.  Above, the wind rustled through the trees, pushing the branches down as the forest closed in on itself.  He heard his blood rushing through his ears, felt his pulse throbbing.  Behind him, twigs broke in the long grass.  Something was coming.

Alistair swung around, eyes wide.  Zevran froze in place and met his gaze, his face neutral.

“Good morning, Alistair.  Did you sleep well?” he said carefully.  Alistair ran a hand through his hair, looking down.

“I, I was just,” he started.  Zevran waited for him to continue, but Alistair just cleared his throat and said nothing.

“Ah, nature calls, yes?” Zevran smiled at him.  Alistair nodded, relieved.

“I was seeing to such things myself.  Do you require more time, or are we ready to move on?”

Alistair took a deep breath and looked away, out into the woods.  They were as peaceful as they had always been.  When he met Zevran’s gaze again, Alistair nodded. 

“I’m ready now.” 

 

It wasn’t until evening that the roads opened up and they saw signs of other people.  An inn stood by the road, already brimming with customers from the nearby farms.  Warm light spilled out of the windows, accompanied by loud chatter and cheers.  Alistair smiled and turned to Zevran when the door slammed open.  Zevran pulled him off the road, a finger to his lips, as an older man stumbled outside.  They watched as he slowly walked away, humming to himself.

“Busy night,” Alistair whispered, turning back to look at the many silhouettes filling the window.

Zevran nodded.  “Good.  They will not notice two more travelers.  Wait here while I secure our rooms,” he replied.  He didn’t give Alistair time to argue. 

He walked purposefully into the inn, confident in every step.  Alistair bit his lip and watched Zevran go inside while he wrung his hands together, kneeled in the dirt.

 

Inside, the inn’s common room was overflowing.  In every corner of the room, travelers and locals alike toasted and gossiped, and drank.  From what he could hear, everyone was talking in vague excitement about the attack on Denerim and the Grey Warden.  Zevran quickly scanned the room for any sign of Anora’s soldiers or assassins.  There were no obvious threats, but still he hurried to the bar with a practiced smile.  A grinning barmaid saw him and nodded while she passed drinks to a young couple at the other end of the bar.  Zevran nodded back and relaxed against the counter while he waited, taking the time to observe the room more closely.

The inn was full, but most people seemed to be alone.  A few obvious regulars sat together at a table near the hearth, comfortable as they pointed out the antics of younger patrons.  Nearly everyone else migrated from table to table, joining and leaving conversations regularly.  Young farmhands, still dust-covered from the work day, chatted eagerly to travelling merchants and huntsmen, and yelled across tables to anyone they recognized.  There was a desperate tone to their enjoyment, and drinks disappeared as quickly as they were served.

“Joining the festivities, dear?  I’ve got plenty of ale, or some wine if you’d prefer,” came a cheery voice from behind him.  Zevran turned and grinned at the barmaid, looking her over.

“I’d prefer a room, if you have one to spare,” he said, leaning in and smirking.  She smiled.

“Just your luck, I’ve got one left.  Most of this lot are staying out on the farms tonight, I expect.  Do you want something to eat, or maybe a bath?  I can send the boy up with some things for you,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress as she spoke.  She hollered behind her and a young boy appeared suddenly behind the bar.  His face was dirty, and his hair stuck up in strange places, but she smiled at him and shook her head.

“More travelers?” he said eagerly, batting away his mother’s hands as she reached to fix his hair.  “Can I help?”

“That’s exactly what you’ll do, just wait a minute.  And clean your face!”  She turned back to Zevran.  “Now, it’ll be a gold piece for the room and bath, and four silvers for a bite to eat.  I’ve got plenty of stew and bread, and I could bake some potatoes for you too.”

Zevran laughed, charmed by her matter-of-fact tone.  “In such a hurry to escape my company?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Zevran waved a hand and continued, saying, “Ah, but you are a busy and accomplished woman, and I only a lowly traveler.  I will take the room.”  He fished five gold pieces from his bag and put them on the counter in front of her.  The barmaid’s eyes widened, and she smiled broadly at him.

“I have a friend joining me,” Zevran continued, “and we will both need to bathe and eat.  And plenty of good ale, I’m sure.  I trust this will be enough.”

“Yes, of course, ser,” she said, hurriedly putting the money into her pockets.  “We will take good care of you, you can be sure of that.  Wally!  Show this nice man to his room.  The far one, with the window.  Then you can come back and fetch his bath and meals.” 

The boy, Wally, nodded and waved for Zevran to follow him.  As they crossed the room, some of the older patrons waved to the boy and tried to ruffle his hair.  He rolled his eyes and ducked away from them, swiping food from their plates once they weren’t looking.  Zevran smiled and winked conspiratorially when Wally caught his eye.  The boy smiled around a mouthful of food and lead Zevran up the stairs.

 

The room was small, but comfortable.  One bed dominated the center of the room, just large enough for Zevran and Alistair to share.  A small table and chairs sat in one corner, and a washtub and chamber pot lay waiting on the opposite wall.  Zevran looked around the room and nodded.

“A fine room!  Thank you for your help,” he said to Wally. 

“You’re welcome, ser,” the boy said.  He bit his lip and bounced from foot to foot by the door.  Zevran raised a brow at him.   Wally smiled sheepishly.

“Mum told me not to bother everyone about it, but…”

Zevran looked at the boy solemnly.  “I swear to you, Wally, I will not speak a word to her.”

Wally nodded seriously, seeming to consider Zevran’s answer.  Then, all in a rush, he asked, “Have you come from down South?  Do you have any news about what happened?”

“Surely a clever young man like you must know everything already!  Tell me what you have heard, and I will share what more I can,” Zevran said.  The boy grinned at the compliment and took a step forward, eager to show off his knowledge.  Zevran watched him carefully, hands on his hips.

“I heard that the Lady Warden killed the Archdemon and stopped the Blight, but she died and so Queen Anora is gonna have a great big funeral for her and all the soldiers who fought in the city, and we don’t have to worry anymore because all the darkspawn are dead, or they ran away back underground,” he said, taking a deep breath and looking up at Zevran.  “Is it true?  Are we really safe now?”

Zevran’s smile faltered for a moment.  “Yes,” he started.  Clearing his throat and fixing his smile, he continued, “Yes, you are safe now.  It seems I came to the right person for information.  You have heard everything there is to know.”

The boy beamed, ignoring the strange tone in Zevran’s voice.  “Thank you!” he said and darted through the door.

Once the door closed, Zevran sat heavily on the bed.  He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, taking in a deep, shuddering breath.  The leather scent comforted and pained him as it filled his lungs.  He sat for a few minutes, just breathing, as the news of the Warden’s death settled into his mind. 

That fierce, deadly woman.  Grief and anger rolled through him as he thought of her.  Her humor and steadfast support had turned them into fast friends, and he missed her dearly.  Her laugh always brightened the long roads.  If only he could—

But no.  He would never forget the look on Alistair’s face when she gave him to Anora, or the sharpness that filled in him at the sight.  The pain of it was stronger than he could have ever anticipated.  And when he found Alistair in that dungeon—

 _Alistair_.  Zevran jolted at the thought.  He would have to be told, and quickly, before some drunken fool tried to toast it with him.  Zevran took a deep breath and rubbed his hands across his face.  He stood, taking a moment to steady himself, then left the room.  The door thudded closed behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you for the response on chapter one, and sorry for the delay in posting. I'm trying to get back in the habit of writing every day, so hopefully the next chapter will be up sooner. As always, comments welcome and feel free to point out any typos/inconsistencies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some descriptions of panic attack symptoms. I kept these brief, but please take care of yourselves.

Zevran guided Alistair through the common room with a hand on his back, pushing their way through the crowd as quickly as possible.  He could hear snippets of conversation—whispers about the Warden and the end of the Blight.  Turning his head towards the speakers, he tried to hear more. Zevran cut him off with a short shake of his head and pushed Alistair more forcefully towards the stairs.   Alistair looked at him, bewildered, but let himself be guided away.

When they entered their room, the table was laden with bowls of stew, loaves of bread, and slabs of cheese.  Bottles of wine stood ready to be opened, and cups brimming with ale called out to them.  Alistair breathed in deeply, the rich scents warming him.  He immediately sat at the table, putting together a plate and taking a deep drink of ale.  He grinned when Zevran joined him.

“Let’s just stay at this inn forever,” Alistair said.  Zevran smiled and claimed his own drink.  Together they slowly cleared the table and their drinks, until just the wine remained.  Alistair sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

“Hey,” he started, lolling his head to look at Zevran.  “Did you find anything out downstairs?  About, you know, my impending doom or anything?”  He huffed a laugh, but quickly let it fade away as he noticed the tense look on Zevran’s face.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up.

Zevran hesitated and pulled the wine open, pouring them both a large cup.  Alistair clutched at his while Zevran took a deep drink, his eyes closed as he savored the taste.  Finally, he spoke.

“They are saying that the Warden died while defeating the Archdemon.”

Alistair didn’t say anything.  He just stared at Zevran.  Zevran took another drink, not meeting his gaze.  Alistair swallowed thickly and raised his cup to his lip.  The hand still on the table shook slightly.

“Alistair—”

“Don’t,” Alistair said harshly, setting his cup down.  “Just, don’t, alright?”  He ran his hands across his face, taking in a deep breath.  Zevran looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

Alistair let his hands fall.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, then cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have—I just,” he cut himself off and sighed.  “Can we just, not talk about it right now?”  Alistair kept his head down, clutching his cup and staring down into the dark liquid.  Next to him, he heard the scrape of the bottle as Zevran poured more for himself.

“As you wish, my friend.”

They sat together and drank in silence, the only sound a dull hum of cheers and conversation from the crowd downstairs.  Alistair’s stomach twisted. 

“Tell me about Antiva,” he said suddenly.  Zevran raised a brow, but otherwise kept his face neutral. 

“Ah, and what parts of Antiva interest you?”

“Anything,” Alistair said.  “Whatever you want.”

“Be careful what you say,” Zevran said, chuckling bitterly and taking a deep drink.  Alistair looked at him, confused, but Zevran waved his hand.  He tapped his chin dramatically.

“There is one story which may interest you,” he said, reaching back in his memory. 

Alistair nodded expectantly.  Zevran smiled and continued, settling in for a long evening of storytelling. 

 

The inn was deathly quiet.  Alistair jolted awake, cold sweat dripping down his back.  He sat up and squeezed his arms around himself, trying to force his chest to calm while his breath stuttered out.  It was too quiet and too loud all at the same time, his pulse echoing in his ears.  He buried his face in his hands and focused on taking deep breaths.

A gentle touch to his back startled him, and he jerked away from it.  Zevran quickly withdrew his hand and sat up, keeping a hesitant distance between them.

“Are you alright?” Zevran asked softly.  Alistair choked a laugh and shook his head.

“Would you like me to go?” he asked.  Alistair didn’t say anything.  Zevran nodded and swung his legs to the side, preparing to stand, but was stopped by a hand gripping his wrist like a vice.  Zevran back at Alistair and was met with tear-stained and fearful eyes.

“Please don’t,” Alistair said, his voice broken and gravelly.  “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” Zevran whispered.  Alistair nodded shakily and withdrew his hand.  Zevran carefully moved back to sit beside him, resting a hand on his back. 

Alistair stared out into the darkness.  “I should have been there,” he said.  Zevran rubbed his back, offering what comfort he could.  Alistair let his head collapse against his chest, tears threatening to fall.

“I should have been there,” he whispered again.  Zevran took a deep breath and ran his arm across Alistair’s back, pulling him in.  Alistair let himself fall into the embrace while Zevran massaged his neck.  He turned and hid his face in Zevran’s shoulder, blinking away what remained of his tears.  Zevran just pulled him closer, running a hand up and down his arm and resting his head atop Alistair’s.  Alistair sighed as he soaked in Zevran’s warmth and let his eyes flutter closed.

“It is late.  We should go back to sleep,” Zevran whispered.  He felt Alistair tense against him and squeezed him gently before running his fingers along the base of his skull.  Alistair sighed and relaxed against him.  Zevran pulled him down, holding the other man tight in his arms.

“Thank you,” Alistair breathed out, turning into Zevran more fully.  Zevran squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to relax.

“Go to sleep, Alistair,” Zevran said, running his hands along Alistair’s back.  Alistair hummed and settled against him.  Zevran sighed and squeezed him again, letting his cheek rest against the top of Alistair’s head.  He stayed awake for a long time.

 

When Alistair woke up, Zevran was already out of bed, fully dressed and eating at the table.  He yawned and stretched, not quite meeting the other man’s eyes as he hauled himself up.  The pain he’d felt the night before was now only a dull ache, and Alistair grimaced when he thought about it. 

Zevran nodded good morning to him, holding out a plate of food.  Alistair took it and sat beside him, but the awkwardness and grief crawling in his gut kept him from eating.  The feeling of strong arms around him wouldn’t leave.

Zevran kept silent.  Alistair didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

 

The tension between them melted away under the Ferelden sun, and by midday they had returned to a kind of normal.  The scenery around them was becoming more unfamiliar as they travelled further north, but Alistair trusted that Zevran had a plan.  Or more of one than he did, anyway.

Alistair yawned and slowed his pace.  He let Zevran lead them for a while, taking some time to stretch his arms and neck.

“Think we could stop for a bit?” Alistair said before yawning deeply again.

“What’s wrong, falling asleep already?” Zevran said, looking over his shoulder with a smirk.  “So much for the strong and powerful warrior,” he continued, teasing.  He slowed down to meet Alistair, and the two sat by the road together.

“It’s not my fault you’re so damn quick,” Alistair said, leaning back against a tree. 

“And here I thought I was being considerate,” Zevran responded.  “Giving you time to… ponder things from a safe distance.”  Alistair looked at him for a moment, then flushed deeply as the meaning sank in.

“That’s not,” he spluttered.  “I wasn’t… Damn you,” he said, hiding his face.  Zevran laughed brightly.

“That was not my intention at all, my friend.  But by all means, ponder away,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

“I hate you so much,” Alistair mumbled, glancing at Zevran from between his fingers.  Zevran smirked.

“Careful,” he warned.  “There are many people in this world far less clever than I.  They may believe you when you say such lies.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, and Zevran laughed again.  Alistair smiled despite himself and turned to Zevran.  His hair shone in the sunlight, painting him in golden tones that made him look like a living sculpture.  Alistair could remember distantly the feeling of that hair tickling his face.  His scalp tingled at the memory of fingers running through his hair, and soft breath against his cheeks. 

When Zevran looked at him, he didn’t turn away.

Alistair felt his smile broaden slightly when their eyes met.  Zevran’s eyes softened, and a kind look crossed his face.  A breeze brushed past them and across the tree leaves and bushes, carrying the sound of hoofbeats with it.

Zevran frowned at the sound and looked down the road.  He quickly pulled Alistair beyond the tree line, ducking behind a small bush.  The land here was flatter and the brush smaller, and the two crouched close together as they hid.  Alistair’s legs cramped under him, but he didn’t dare move.  Zevran put a finger to his lips, needlessly gesturing for Alistair to stay quiet before crawling forward for a better look.  Alistair bit his lip and put a hand to the hilt of his sword.

After a few minutes, Zevran crawled back beside him.  The leaves just barely rustled underfoot as he leaned against Alistair.

“Soldiers.  Two of them,” he breathed against Alistair’s ear.  Alistair’s teeth worried at his lip.  They could take them if they needed to, but that would just bring more later.  Not to mention it would tell Anora exactly where they were.  Zevran reached the same conclusion.  He rested his hand atop Alistair’s on the sword hilt and shook his head slightly.  Alistair sighed lightly and tried to settle further into cover. 

They stayed silent as the hoofbeats grew louder.  Alistair tensed at the sound.  The bushes were too small.  He felt exposed, waiting to be spotted and pounced upon at any moment.  He gripped tighter at his sword and tried to relax, but his breath was choked.  Zevran must have noticed his struggle, for he ran his thumb soothingly across the back of Alistair’s hand.  Without thinking, Alistair turned his hand over and gripped at Zevran’s.  Zevran squeezed back gently, still gently rubbing his thumb against Alistair.  Alistair stared at their hands, focusing on the feeling through his gloves.

 Slowly, the hoofbeats passed them by and faded away.  Alistair didn’t let go.

 

After some time, Zevran turned to Alistair and placed a hand on his shoulder.  Alistair didn’t react.

“Alistair,” he said quietly.  “It’s time to go.”

Alistair didn’t respond, staring down the road towards where the soldiers had disappeared.  Zevran took the hand from his shoulder and reached around him, taking both Alistair’s hands in his own.  He stared at him, searching.  Slowly, Alistair turned and met his eyes.  Zevran’s face was pinched with worry.

“It’s time to go, Alistair,” he whispered soothingly.  Alistair’s eyes darted back and forth, not sure what he was looking for.  Zevran held his gaze and squeezed his hands.  Alistair tentatively squeezed back.

“I--,” he started.  Zevran shushed him softly.

“I know.  We need to go a little further and then we will rest, alright?”

Alistair tried to speak but couldn’t.  He gave a small nod and let Zevran pull him up onto shaky legs.  They stood together, Zevran keeping close and never letting go of his hands.  Finally, Alistair took a deep, stuttering breath and nodded more fully.  Zevran nodded and stepped back, pulling his hands out of Alistair’s grip.  Alistair let his own hands fall to his sides, feeling strangely heavy without Zevran to support them. 

 

They continued down the road together, Zevran staying close to Alistair’s side.   Their hands brushed together every few steps, but neither of them moved away.  Alistair’s stomach warmed with every touch.

 

Camp that night was stilted and awkward between them as they hovered around each other.  Without the constant alertness needed on the road, the two struggled to regain their balance.  They ate in silence, the few inches between them immense in the cool darkness.  Both had rejected the idea of a fire, not wanting to alert any soldiers to their campsite, but Alistair regretted that now.  He shifted in his seat, restless and unsure where to look.  He glanced quickly at Zevran before sighing and staring up into the trees and stars above them.  Soft moonlight floated down through the canopy and Alistair closed his eyes against the night.

A cool breeze cut through the trees and Alistair shuddered against it, unconsciously shifting closer to Zevran.  He felt Zevran look at him but ignored it, his eyes still closed.

“It’s cold,” he muttered.  Zevran hummed in agreement and subtly leaned closer to Alistair. 

“It is,” he whispered back.  Another breeze ran past them, kicking up dried leaves and dirt in its wake.  Zevran leaned against Alistair more fully, and Alistair felt the weight of him along his side.

“Thank you,” Alistair said, keeping his voice low.  “For earlier.”

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Zevran said decidedly.  Alistair opened his mouth, ready to protest, but cut himself off.  He sighed and let his head fall.

“I never,” he started, before his throat closed off and stopped him.  Zevran leaned against him, silently encouraging him.  Alistair cleared his throat and tried again.

“I never asked.  About her d--,” he bit his lip.  “About losing her,” he finished softly, picking at the grass by his side.  He felt Zevran pull away slightly, and blindly followed his warmth.  Realizing what he was doing, he jolted to a stop and bit his lip harder.  Zevran didn’t notice or chose to ignore him.

“I think,” Zevran said carefully.  “That the world is worse off without her in it.”

Alistair furrowed his brow and looked over at Zevran.  His shoulders were tight, and he stared straight ahead, pointedly not looking at Alistair.

“But what about you?” Alistair said unthinkingly.

Zevran was silent for a long time.  Alistair looked away from him and pulled his knees up to meet his chest. 

Finally, Zevran spoke, his voice almost a whisper as he said, “She was not the woman I thought she was.”  Alistair glanced at him, hoping he would continue, but Zevran’s eyes were closed and his lips pressed tight together. 

He thought about what the other man had said.  After all their time together, everything they shared, did he really know her at all?  For a moment, he was back at the Landsmeet, watching her choose Loghain.  Letting Anora take him from her side.  He had been so sure of their love for each other, he’d never even considered that they would one day be separated.  Or that it would be her betrayal that caused it.

His heart squeezed in his chest.

“No,” Alistair said, his throat tight.  “No, I guess she wasn’t.”

Zevran rested a hand on his arm and Alistair’s heart broke all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! Promise it will start to pay off soon. I've planned out 7 chapters and a potential epilogue, and am hoping to stick to this week and a half-ish posting schedule. I'll occasionally post updates on my tumblr (ticticinstance) if you wanna follow over there.  
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated. Seriously, they make my day. Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos so far!


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